


Upside-Down

by OTP221B



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Stranger Things Crossover, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7858339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTP221B/pseuds/OTP221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When twelve-year-old John Watson's twin sister, Harry, goes missing, John and his friends launch a terrifying investigation into Harry's disappearance. As they search for answers, they unravel a series of extraordinary mysteries involving secret government experiments, unnerving supernatural forces, and a very unusual little boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Vanishing of Harry Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter One is based on the Tumblr Sherlock Challenge's August prompt - "tea".
> 
> Chapters Two through Eight will also attempt to incorporate the challenge's monthly prompts. Which means A) things may get tricky for me and B) Upside-Down will only update once a month, which works well in my busy schedule.

John Watson sips from his mug of lukewarm tea as he watches his friends horrified faces from across a table messy with papers, crayons, and empty biscuit packets. The tea tastes horrible. Molly's mum always makes it with sugar and the sweetness makes John's teeth ache. He swallows manfully and takes another sip as an excuse to keep from giggling.

"Something is coming," he repeats in ominous tones. "Something hungry for _blood_."

On the other side of the rickety basement table Molly Hooper squeaks and buries her face in her hands.

"Oh no," she groans. "I told you! Greg - I told you!"

Greg's chewing a thumbnail, eyes narrowed on the game screen blocking John's dungeon map from view. "Calm down, Molls. It might be nothing."

Molly shoots a desperate glance at John. John grins.

"It's almost here," John growls, gripping his mug tightly. He shows Molly his teeth in a frightening leer. "It wants to snack on your bones, crunch your tasty gristle between long, pointy fangs."

Molly actually shudders. Greg's frown deepens. Harry groans.

"Jesus, John," his twin complains. "Tone it down before Molly wets her panties."

"I will not!" Molly straightens, glaring right back at Harry. John knows the girls don't like each other - much. They're too different. Harry would rather be out riding her bike around the block or playing hoops and sneaking beer with the older kids down the street. Molly prefers her books over anything else and thinks Harry's rebellion is shallow. Molly actually _likes_ Dungeons and Dragons. Harry's only there in the Hooper basement because their usual fourth - Billy Murray - has the flu and John begged Harry to take his place for the night because John didn't want to postpone the campaign.

John _loves_ D &D, lives for their weekly meetings. Down in the Hooper basement, Dungeon Master screen carefully in place, John Watson finds escape.

"It's getting clooooooser," he warns, and widens his eyes at Molly.

"Jesus." Greg stops chewing his thumbnail and knuckles his eyes instead. "What if it's the Demogorgon?"

"It's not!" Molly says quickly. "It can't be the Demogorgon! ...can it?" She peeks at John.

"What the hell's a demogorgon?" Harry asks, tapping her fingers restlessly on the edge of the table.

"It's not the Demogorgon." John sets down his tea and wiggles his fingers. "An army of troglodytes burst into the room, roaring for blood!"

What the hell're troglodytes?" Harry wants to know. She looks thoroughly disgusted but Molly and Greg exhale in relief.

"Troglodytes," Greg reaches for the die. "We can handle fuckin' trogs."

Molly nods. But before Greg can reach for the dice, John leans forward.

"Oh, wait," he says sweetly. "They're not alone, the sneaky bastards. These troggies have brought along a _friend_."

"Oh, fuck!" Greg cries. "You git!"

"Demogorgon!" John shouts. "From behind the troglodyte army stomps a ginormous, massive, bloody humongous - "

"John!" Molly complains, puffing the fringe out of her eyes in exasperation. "Just get to it!"

"The Demogorgon!" John yells. Upstairs Mrs Hooper stomps on the floor in warning. It's already past curfew and soon enough Molly's mum will come down stairs and shoo them on home.

"Christ, Christ," Greg looks as alarmed as if an actual Demogorgon has burst through the basement wall and is looming behind John, all slime and drool and sharp talons. "What are we gonna do? Molls!"

"It's Harry's action!" Molly realizes. She looks panicked. "Harry, I think maybe you should - "

"Fireball," Harry says without even glancing at Bill's character sheet.

"What?" Greg roars. "Shit, fuck, Harry! You'd have to roll a 13!"

Harry shrugs, elaborately unconcerned. "It's my turn, right? My choice. So I say fry the bastard. I cast Fireball."

John stifles a sigh. Even Harry with her admittedly shaky math skills must know luck is not on her side. She's just being a pissant because she wants to go home or annoy John or both.

"Fine," he snaps. "Roll."

Harry grabs a neon blue crystal 20 sided. She shakes it twice in her fist and then drops it on the table. It spins three times. Molly's holding her breath. Greg leaps up and leans over the table for a look.

"Oh God," he groans. "Oh Christ."

"What is it?" Molly demands. "I can't look. What does it say!"

"Two," Harry replies, smug, ignoring John's furious scowl. "I rolled a two."

"Oh," Molly sighs. "Oh, no."

"We're dead," Greg yells. "We're all fucking dead! Harry, you bloody, fucking, SHIT-FACED cock!"

"Shhh!" John warns, but too late. A door slams open and Mrs Hooper comes stomping down the basement stairs, fully of righteous indignation.

***

"She blew it on purpose," Greg complains to John as they ride home, side-by-side, John on his battered second-hand Schwinn, Greg on a dusty ten-speed. "She didn't even try."

"It's late anyway." It is, long past dark. Harry on her on bike has raced on ahead down the road, and disappeared past the glare of street lights. The Watson twins are supposed to head straight home but their own mum is working late shift and won't be back from hours so Harry's likely gone instead to hang with her older friends and their enticing liquor cabinet. 

"Still, she ruined it." Greg runs his bike in a circle around John as he complains. "It's a good dungeon and she blew initiative on a stupid friggin FIREBALL." 

John stops pedaling so abruptly Greg almost rams into him.

"Hey! Whatchit!"

"Did you see that?" John's looking past his friend into the trees beyond a flickering street lamp. This stretch of neighborhood is devoid of houses, a wide bridge of asphalt between one cul-de-sac and the next. The street is brightly lit, but beyond the sidewalk civilization gives way to thick woods and tangled underbrush. After sunset the trees are more a patch of darkness than a living grove.

"What?" Greg peers at the woods. "See what?"

John wrinkles his nose. Out of the corner of one eye he thought he'd seen - but now he wasn't sure. A flash off street lamp off a pair of eyes? A streak of deeper black across the shadowed woods? The hair on the back of his neck was standing alert, goose pimples bursting on his flesh, but -

"Nothing, never mind," he shakes his head. "Probably just a raccoon. Or, you know, Mr Johnson's old cat."

"Okay," Greg says easily, already on to better things. "Race you back to yours? Winner gets a comic!"

John brightens, forgetting the shiver under his skin and the looming trees. "Any comic?"

"Yessir!" And Greg's already off, ten-speed racing away in the dark.

"Hey! Bloody hell!" John launches forward, pedaling furiously. "You didn't say 'go'!"

"Come on Watson!" Greg howls over his shoulder. "Ride like you mean it!"

"Get back here!" John yells back. Wind whistles past his ears as his bike zooms along asphalt. "You prick!"

"Your _X-Men 134,"_ Greg carols from what seems like miles ahead. "Is about to be mine!"

***

It ends in half-hearted fisticuffs outside the Watson double-wide. John's smaller than Greg, but tougher; he's had to defend himself against Harry since the moment his twin could walk and he's learned all the dirty tricks. Not that he'd use the worst ones on Greg anyway. They laugh and tussle and pinch and then Greg decides he'd better get home before he earns a grounding and John magnanimously lets his friend borrow _X-Men 134_ for the night.

"Back in school tomorrow, and it better be pristine," John warns.

"Not a problem." Greg slips the comic into his backpack, salutes, and straddles his bike. "See you in the morning, Watson."

" _Pristine_!" John shouts after. "Wash your hands before reading!"

But Greg's already gone. Behind John the double-wide trailer is quiet, empty. His mum's not home, and neither is Harry. He locks the front door and flips on lights as he walks back through the trailer to his room. He doesn't mind the silence, not so much. Mum and Harry are always fighting anyway, and looking to John for fixing things. Their mutual tantrums get awful old awful quick. Sometimes John feels lonelier when everyone's home than he does when they're out.

He glances at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand near his bed. Just after nine. Mum and Harry are both late. His stomach rumbles. He had pizza at the Hooper's but he could do with a snack. He's pretty sure he's hit a growth spurt; lately all his clothes seem too tight.

He shucks his T-shirt and jeans and pulls on flannel pajamas. It gets cold at night in the double-wide. His mum doesn't like to run the heat. John tromps barefoot into the kitchen and raids the pantry. There's a tin of chocolate biscuits behind a jar of peanut butter, and milk in the old fridge. He takes the biscuits and pours himself a glass of milk and stands at the kitchen counter and eats.

He's on his fifth biscuit when his mum's car turns off the road, headlights too bright. Hastily he cleans up the kitchen and darts back into his room, diving into bed. He doesn't want to be involved when Mum notices Harry's out past curfew again. He pretends to be asleep, relieved when his mum tip-toes across shag carpet to kiss him on the forehead, then leaves the room. He lays on his stomach beneath a mountain of quilts, waiting for sleep, reliving the evening's campaign with a grin. He'd had Molly on the edge of her seat and Greg chewing off bits of thumbnail until Harry had ruined it. After, as Mrs Hooper was chasing them out of the basement, everyone had said it was the best dungeon he'd run yet, even Harry, who'd grudgingly admitted she liked his 'spooky style'.

When John finally falls asleep he dreams of the Demogorgon, only it's not claws and spit and fangs, it's shadow and slime and fingers like worms, and it's chasing him through forest familiar and unfamiliar both.

When he wakes he smells like sour sweat and his stomach aches. It's time for school, Mum's shouting in the kitchen, and Harry's still not come home.

 

 

 


	2. The Weirdo On Maple Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When twelve-year-old John Watson's twin sister, Harry, goes missing, John and his friends launch a terrifying investigation into Harry's disappearance. As they search for answers, they unravel a series of extraordinary mysteries involving secret government experiments, unnerving supernatural forces, and a very unusual little boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two is based on the Tumblr Sherlock Challenge's August prompt - "first times". This was easy, as Sherlock/Eleven is inundated with first times, from freedom to chocolate to his first glimpse of John Watson.
> 
> Chapters Three through Eight will also attempt to incorporate the challenge's monthly prompts. Which means A) things may get tricky for me and B) Upside-Down will only update once a month, which works well in my busy schedule.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Recently dead skunk. Previously dead Redbeard.

Running away was harder than he expected.

Home - slick floors, sterile walls, bright lights - was the only safe place he'd ever known.

Lately he'd begun to understand that his definition of safe might be skewed, that other people didn't live like he did. For a long time he hadn't cared to notice. He had Mycroft, and Redbeard. Mycroft made sure Sherlock was always warm and never hungry, and Mycroft set him interesting games to play involving big words like 'psychokinesis' and 'electromagnetism" and the "Ganzfeld Method" which meant Sherlock was rarely bored. Mycroft brought him crates of books to read, and Crayons and paper with which to color. Sometimes there were other children to color with, although they rarely stayed log. And if Sherlock sometimes threw a tantrum because he'd rather play with Redbeard than submit to having his head clipped smooth for the electrodes or his body scrubbed clean before the Bath, and if sometimes Mycroft lost his temper and ordered Sherlock into 'solitary' until Sherlock stopped fussing, well. Sherlock didn't feel any less safe. After solitary there was Redbeard to cuddle, and Mycroft would dry Sherlock's tears as he lectured on the importance of their experiments, and Sherlock would eventually agree to have his skull stubble scraped off as everyone had known from the beginning he would, and life went back to normal.

_Safe_.

Only as he grew older and Mycroft's experiments became both easier and more dreadful Sherlock began to deduce from the expressions and actions of those around him that maybe he was mistaken, that maybe _Mycroft_ was mistaken, and that home wasn't _meant_ to be often painful and sometimes frightening - sterile, bright and slick. And when Redbeard died Sherlock was sure of his conclusion; he saw it in the faces of the men and women who Mycroft said were there to keep Sherlock from harm but instead looked at him with hatred and pity just because his grief was too big a thing, too physical a thing, for them to understand.

"You're not like other people, Sherlock," Mycroft explained gently, after. This time he didn't try to dry Sherlock's tears because Redbeard was dead and they both knew there was no coming back from _that._ "Other people don't telekinetically tear an entire office to shreds over _sentiment_." He sounded more proud than angry even as he continued: "We need to work on your control."

Mycroft was right, of course. Mycroft was always right. Because it was Sherlock's lack of control that set the Monster free and made running away Sherlock's only option.

***

It was cold and dark. Night, which previously Sherlock had known only as the time between 9 o'clock PM and 7 o'clock AM when the lights on his floor were switched off. He'd heard the guards talking, of course. "I hate night shift" or "Rainy nights are the worst!" or "Moon out tonight". Sometimes Sherlock had caught glimpses of night through other people's eyes during Mycroft's experiments, sometimes those glimpses had been from the other side of the world. 

He'd anticipated dark, but not cold. He shivered as he ran. Tiny bumps rose all along his flesh, the way they sometimes did when he was hooked up to the electrodes. The bottoms of his bare feet were cut and bleeding. They throbbed. This, too, was new and unsettling. He was used to pain in his head, and behind his ribs, but that was a phantom sort of pain. The throb of his feet was more immediate, frightening, and also interesting. If not for the Monster somewhere behind him Sherlock might have stopped to examine the mix of sensations.

He tripped mid-stride and fell, scraping his hands. There were trees everywhere, black and grey against a silver sky. _Moon out tonight_. The trees had more branches than he'd imagined, and less foliage. The ground was carpeted with their shed leaves - not green but brown and fragile. _Autumn_ , Sherlock recalled from his books as he scrambled back upright and clutched his arms tightly around his middle, gasping in the cold air, taking stock. _Autumn marks the transition between summer and winter. The arrival of night becomes noticeably earlier and the temperature cools considerably, and deciduous trees begin to shed their leaves._

Someone or something screamed out in the blackness behind Sherlock. It was a terrifying sound, inhuman.

"Monster," Sherlock gasped. He started running again, through the trees beneath the moon. When he fetched up in front of the electrified fence he thought he was doomed, but then out of the corner of his eye he saw the bulge of possibility beneath a mound of leaves. He dropped to his knees, desperately brushing away brittle foliage. His fingers found the edge of something loose and round, like a big dinner plate set in the dirt. _Lid_ , his mind supplied, _drain pipe_. It wasn't a large opening,  and it was dark inside, just like in the Bath, but Sherlock was small and skinny, and the Monster was behind not up ahead so he slithered head first into the narrow pipe and crawled toward freedom.

***

Stealing food was a bad idea, but by the time Sherlock emerged from the drain pipe he was light-headed with exhaustion and fear, and knew from the tingly feeling in his fingers and toes that collapse was eminent if he didn't first fill his belly. He couldn't run if his transport failed him, and he thought he hand't yet run far enough. The drain had pipe spat him out near a narrow dirt road. Lights twinkled through more trees. He walked along the road toward them. Unfamiliar sounds and smells filled the night. Sherlock played deductions to keep from crying. _That must be the hoot of an owl_ , _possibly Bubo Virginians. That's a squirrel in the underbrush. And oh - ugh - skunk on the road, corpse, newly flattened. Look at the white stripe down its tail!_

He forgot to be frightened in the vividness of experience, the assault on his senses. Eyes half-closed, Sherlock sorted data as he walked - off the dirt road and up a short lane between trees to a low building lit by a garish flashing sign above bright, friendly windows. The door was unlocked. He slipped through. It was warm inside, and the smells made his empty stomach growl. He followed the scent of food past tables and chairs into a back room, sterile beneath a spatter of grease and soap.

_Kitchen_ , Sherlock decided, triumphant. There was plenty of food, none of it up to Mycroft's standards, certainly, but what did that matter? Sherlock grabbed a fistful of nourishment out of the nearest pan and almost burned his fingers in the attempt. Careless of the temperature, he stuffed _potatoes, salted, French Fries?_ into his mouth and chewed rabidly. His eyes watered at the pain of his scalded tongue but French Fries were delicious.

"Hey! Hey you!"

Sherlock started, scattering fries, and turned to run, but the big man was faster. He caught Sherlock by the scruff of his neck even as he swore and gasped over Sherlock's nudity.

***

"Jesus God." The man watched as Sherlock, now soundly wrapped head to toe in a worn blanket and sat down at a table, shoveled French Fries from plate to mouth with freshly cleaned fingers. "Your parents forget to feed you? Is that why you ran away?"

Sherlock kept his eyes safely down and on the food. The man, for all his frightening size, was harmless. He was no threat to Sherlock, but Sherlock couldn't promise not to hurt him. It was better to look away and keep quiet.

But the man had questions. And he was tenacious. "They, your parents, did they hurt you?" He pressed. Sherlock felt his stare.  "You went to the hospital, maybe, and you got scared, you ran off, you wound up here, is that it? All right. Tell you what. You like those fries, huh?  Sure, they're my specialty. And you can have as many as you want. All you want. All right? Maybe even some ice cream. Breyer's brand chocolate, even. Breyer's tastes better than heaven. But you gotta answer a few of my questions first, okay?"

Mouth full, Sherlock frowned, calculating. What was Breyer's, he wondered, and what did heaven taste like?

Reluctantly, he nodded.

"Oh, good. We got a deal? Okay, great, let's start with the easy stuff. All right? My name's Benny. Benny Hammond." Benny ducked his head and forced Sherlock to meet his eye over the plate of fries. His smile seemed genuine.  "See? Like this." He extended a hand. Beckoned. Slowly, Sherlock extended his own hand. Their fingers collided. Benny squeezed gently. "Nice to meet you, yeah. And you are?"

Sherlock hesitated. Benny Hammond was obviously friendly, but Sherlock wasn't supposed to tell anyone his name, not even the other children in the room with the books and the Crayons. Only Mycroft knew Sherlock's name, and Redbeard. In the room with the Crayons they all went by -

Sherlock turned his hand over, pointed at the tattoo on his wrist. Benny scowled, confused. 

"Eleven?" He demanded. "What's that mean? What's it mean?" He looked uncomfortable.

Sherlock shrugged. "No," he said, in case Benny wanted to pursue the matter. Better to put a stop to curiosity early.

But Benny grinned. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, delighted. "The boy speaks! No? No, what? What's that mean?"

But Sherlock shook his head vehemently from side to side and returned to eating. Benny clicked his tongue.

"All right, fine. Stubborn little thing. But a promise is a promise. Let me just go get you that ice cream." His chair scraped when he pushed it back. Smiling and nodding, went into the kitchen, made a big show of scooping frozen chocolate milk into a bowl. He brought the bowl back and set it in front of Sherlock with a flourish. "There you go. Breyer's."

Ice cream was good, very good. So good Sherlock almost didn't notice when Benny snuck back into the kitchen, punched some buttons into a intercom on the wall, and spoke into the receiver. _Telephone_.

"Yeah, look, all I know is he's scared," Benny said to the person on the other end of the line. "Scared to death, and maybe abused or kidnapped, or something. Yeah, can you send someone out? 4819 Randolph Lane, just past the fork in the road."

Sherlock took the bowl of Breyer's with him when he ran. He fled down the lane and back over the dirt lane and into the dubious shelter of the trees. He ran until his legs gave out and then he sat in a huddle on the ground in the dark. When John found him Sherlock was wrapped in Benny's blanket, slurping melted chocolate ice-cream from Benny's bowl. 

***

"Is there a number we can call for your parents?" John demanded. His face was creased with worry, his blue eyes the kindest Sherlock had ever seen. "Where's your hair? Are you sick? Do you have cancer?"

John had two companions, a boy and a girl. The girl stared at Sherlock with grudging awe, while the boy thrust out his lower lip in challenge.

"Did you run away?" he demanded. "Are you in some kind of trouble? Is that blood? Jesus, John, that's blood!"

"Stop it, Greg! You're freaking him out!" John warned. His blue eyes narrowed. Sherlock had never seen a blue the color of John's eyes, not even in the paintings in his books. It was the first thing he'd noticed when they'd come out of the night into the comfort of John's home. The steady blue of John's eyes to match his steady nature. Sherlock hadn't planned to follow John and his friends out of the woods into civilization, but John had refused to take no for an answer.

"He's freaking me out!" Grey complained. "I bet he's deaf." Sherlock shot him a derisive look, then shook his head. Greg gaped. "Okay, maybe not deaf."

"All right," John said.  "That's enough, all right? He's just scared and cold." He thrust a bundle of clothes against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock took them without protest. "Here, these are clean. Okay?"

But when Sherlock began to shrug off Benny's blanket John squeaked. "No, no, no! Not in front of Molly." Sherlock blinked and the girl blushed pink and John softened. "See over there? That's the bathroom. Privacy. Get it?" He followed Sherlock across the room and started to shut the door on Sherlock's back. Sherlock shoved a foot between door and wall, stopping him. John tilted his head. "You don't want it closed?"

"No," said Sherlock decisively, thinking _solitary_.

"Oh, so you can speak." When John grinned Sherlock couldn't help but smile back, and Sherlock's small smile only seemed to make John's grin widen.  "Okay, well... Okay, how about we just keep the door... half cracked, just like this. Is that better?"

"Yes," agreed Sherlock, grateful.

Greg groaned from across the room. "This is mental!"

"At least he can talk," the girl, Molly, pointed out. "He said no and yes."

"Your three-year-old sister says more," Greg retorted. Back turned, Sherlock stiffened before shedding Benny's blanket hastily. "He was about to get _naked_. In front of _you_. There's something seriously wrong with that. Like, wrong in the head. I bet he escaped from Pennhurst."

"From where?" Molly asked.

"The nuthouse in Kerley County," John said. "You're wrong, Greg. He's not a nut."

The shirt and pants John had provided were too big on Sherlock, but they were warm, and comfortable. As he listened to the other children argue he carefully rolled up cuffs on the sleeves and trousers.

"Pennhurst would explain his shaved head and why he's so strange," Greg insisted. "He could be a psycho. Like Michael Myers. We never should've brought him here."

Sherlock edged back out of the bathroom. John patted him awkwardly on one shoulder. "No. I wasn't going to leave him out in the woods in the dark in just a blanket." His hand on Sherlock's shoulder was heavy and reassuring.

"Why not? We went out to find _Harry_ , not another problem." Greg glared at Sherlock. Sherlock glared back.

"I think we should tell your mom," Molly suggested. Her stare skated off Sherlock's bald head and then back again. Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from touching his skull. Molly had long hair, almost down to her back, dark and shiny in the overhead light.

"Don't be crazy." John nudged Sherlock gently further into the room. "If I tell my mom and she tells your mom and Molly's mom then our houses become Alcatraz. We'll never find Harry. And I'm just not willing to risk that." He pointed Sherlock at a pile of cushions on the floor.  "He sleeps here tonight."

Molly's brow furrowed. "You're letting a stranger - "

" Just listen!" John had a temper, but it was less destructive than Sherlock's, carefully controlled. John had _control,_ and Sherlock couldn't help but be envious _._ "In the morning, he sneaks around my house, goes to the front door and rings my doorbell. My mom will answer and know exactly what to do. She'll send him back to Pennhurst or wherever he comes from. We'll be totally in the clear. And tomorrow night, we go back out. And this time," John's fists opened and closed at his side,  "we find Harry."

"Here." He showed Sherlock the floor again. "Here you go. This is my sleeping bag. You'll be warm and safe here. And, hey," his stern expression eased, "um, I never asked your name."

Sherlock, head cocked, pointed at the mark on his wrist. John licked his lips, puzzled, before understanding broke. "Eleven? Is that the number eleven? Wow. I've never seen a kid with a tattoo before. I mean, Harry's always saying she'll get one." Sherlock, impatient, tapped a finger on the ink while John Watson rambled. "What's it mean? Eleven, eleven, huh. You mean that's your name? You want to be called Eleven?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied solemnly.

"Huh, okay. Well," John shuffled in place. "Eleven's kinda long. How about I just call you, I dunno, El? Yeah? Okay, great. I'm John, but you already know that. John Watson is all of it."

"John," Sherlock repeated, "Watson."

"Great!" John bounced on his toes. "Okay. Well. I'll see you in the morning?" Sherlock nodded. John turned away, started up the stairs, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Night, El."

"Goodnight, John."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ganzfeld Method: http://dbem.ws/ganzfeld.html


	3. Holly Jolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When twelve-year-old John Watson's twin sister, Harry, goes missing, John and his friends launch a terrifying investigation into Harry's disappearance. As they search for answers, they unravel a series of extraordinary mysteries involving secret government experiments, unnerving supernatural forces, and a very unusual little boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three is based on the Tumblr Sherlock Challenge's August prompt - "sports". Very loosely based, but I managed to get it in.
> 
> Chapters Four through Eight will also attempt to incorporate the challenge's monthly prompts. Which means A) things may get tricky for me and B) Upside-Down will only update once a month, which works well in my busy schedule.

"El?" John's whisper sounds too loud in the basement stairwell. He winces, and pauses, but his mom's on the phone with the police again, and anyway she's too consumed with Harry's disappearance to pay much attention to John. Other than a few tight, cursory hugs and an exhortation to stay out of trouble - _Your sister's really gone and done it this time, this is the last straw for Harry, it's boarding school for sure, your Dad **warned** her, just stay out of trouble Johnnie, I know you will, you've always been such a **good** child_   - Mrs. Watson has mostly seemed to forget John exists which, as far as he's concerned, is all fine. 

"El?" he whispers again, taking the steps slowly. He's put breakfast on a tray and maybe poured too much OJ; the juice sloshes dangerously in Harry's chipped Garfield mug as he descends. "You awake? Hey, I brought you some - oh. Hey, there you are. Found my supercomm, huh?"

His heart lifts a little when El looks up and around. The other boy's eyes, a funny blue-green color under the basement's fluorescent light, are wide, his pale cheeks flushed pink. El looks small and fragile in John's clothes. He grips John's radio in both hands against his chest as if he's worried John will take the comm away. His dark brows are lowered.

"Hey, no, it's good." Carefully John sets breakfast on the table, brushing aside the remnants of yesterday's D&D game. "You can look at it. Pretty cool, huh? I talk to my friends with it. Mostly Greg, because he lives so close, and the signal's pretty shitty. Here, I got you breakfast. Not much, but all've we got is Eggos and juice and bagels, and the bagels went stale last week."

El approaches the table, still clutching the radio. He looks from John to the food and back again, then unclenches his fingers from around the radio long enough to snatch up the Eggo and take a solid bite. He chews and swallows, and then smiles at John like John's just given him the moon. John's heart leaps in response. He's never had anyone look at him quite that way before,  _at_ him and not past him. He grins back.

"Yeah, those one's aren't half bad. The chocolate chip ones are better. Right." He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. "Listen. I need you to do something, okay? This is going to sound a little weird, but I just need you to go out there." He points at the basement door. El's funny colored eyes follow the track of his finger. "Out and around front and then ring the bell. Mom'll answer and you just tell her that you're lost and you need help, okay? She's kind of in a snit over Harry at the moment, but she'll listen. She'll know who to call to help you, okay?"

Now El's dark brows rise, giving him a decidedly derisive expression. It's the same look he'd given Greg earlier when Greg suggested he was deaf, and John thinks maybe it's one he wears a lot. 

"No," El says, around another mouthful of Eggo.

"No?" echoes John, baffled.

El swallows. He tries the OJ and makes a face at the sour taste. "No."

"No? No what?" But John has already guessed. If he's honest with himself, he's suspected since they found El in the woods. "You don't want my mom to get help. You're in trouble. Aren't you?"

El nods solemnly. He's finished the Eggo in ninety seconds flat, which is a record even in the Watson household where everything is done at full speed. John can't help but be impressed, and also a tiny bit scared.

"Okay. Right. That's okay. We'll fix it. I'm good at fixing things." He paces in a small circle around the table. It's hard to stand still when he's thinking. Also, there's an ache in the pit of his stomach that isn't hunger. It feels more like dread. "Who are you in trouble with?"

El licks his lips, considering. John can tell the other boy is nervous too. Then El shrugs, rolling thin shoulders under John's baggy shirt. "Bad," El explains.

John stops pacing. "Bad? Bad people?" El nods again. "They want to hurt you? The bad people?" The idea makes John angry. El might be strange, different, but that didn't mean anyone had the right to hurt him. As far as John's concerned, everyone's a little bit different. He huffs, clenching one fist and then the other. "Well," he proclaims. "I won't let that happen. So just...don't worry. Okay?"

"Okay," El says, carefully. Then he smiles, another slow blossoming of joy that makes John stand up taller.

"Good. I'll just - "

"John!"

The shout makes them both freeze. It's John's mom from the top of the basement stairs. 

"Come on, John! You'll be late to school and they want to see me downtown about Harry! Hurry up!"

"Shit." John puts a finger over his lips. El mimics him, eyes wide. It's hardly the time or place for laughter, but El's expression is so dramatic John has to smother giggles.

"Coming, Mom! I'm coming!" He shouts up the stairs. And then, in a whisper: "Stay here, okay? I'll be back, I promise. But you've got to stay here and stay quiet."

"Okay," El replies softly. John can feel the weight of the other boy's gaze on his back as he leaves the room.

***

Sherlock spends some time playing with John Watson's 'supercomm'. The heavy black box has two small dials on its face. A thick antennae sprouts from the top. It reminds Sherlock of the radio Mycroft sometimes used when Sherlock was very young and they played 'listen'. John's radio, like Mycroft's version, crackles merrily when Sherlock spins the dials. He spins them quickly back and forth as he wanders the basement, never stopping too long on one channel. 'Listen' was an entertaining game when Sherlock was little, but now that he's older he find the desperate voices trapped in the airwaves more poignant than puzzling.

Although he doesn't let go of the radio, Sherlock distracts himself by examining the furnishings in the room. He sits on a sagging sofa, bouncing on the thin cushions. There's a blanket over the back of the sofa's arm. The blanket smells like John Watson and, more distantly, of breakfast. Sherlock's stomach growls, but he ignores it. He'll asking John for another 'Eggo' when he returns.

There are a series of shelving units along one side of the room. Sherlock runs a finger over dusty books, mouthing their titles. Upstairs the house is very quiet. There's a loneliness to the silence that makes Sherlock shiver. He can't remember every being alone before. Not in the closet, not even in the bath. No matter how thick the darkness, Sherlock always knew Mycroft was just on the other side, vigilant.

Sherlock swallows down a lump in his throat. He won't allow himself to regret his older brother. 

There's a photograph on the shelving unit, wedged between two books on Vietnam. Sherlock knows about Vietnam. Once Mycroft asked him to find an important man thought lost somewhere near Hanoi. Sherlock, eyes closed and one hand tangled in the man's favorite button down jumper, found him without any effort at all. He wasn't in Hanoi - he was sleeping beneath the rice fields of Sa Pa, flesh rotted, bones nibbled by tiny fish. News of the man's long ago death had angered Mycroft, but he'd petted Sherlock's shaven scalp and thanked him for trying. For many nights after, when Sherlock dreamed of hungry schools of fish eating away at his own flesh, and woke screaming, it was Mycroft who brought him cups of soothing tea and wrapped him in warm blankets while he shook.

The photograph is of John Watson, a much younger John Watson than the one Sherlock knows. John in the photograph is gap-toothed and chubby-cheeked, smiling into the camera as he poses in front of a large evergreen festooned with red and green lights. Brightly colored boxes tied with shiny ribbon obscure the tree's lower branches. John's holding a similar box in two small hands. He appears very pleased with himself. 

Gingerly, Sherlock takes the photograph from the shelf, brushes dust from the frame, and then returns it to its place against _A Complete History of Vietnam_. 

Sherlock misses the real John. The basement room seems suddenly much too confining and too empty at the same time. Sherlock flees up the stairs in John's wake.

***

The first floor of the Watson home is light and airy. Sunshine streams through large windows. The rooms flow into each other naturally. Standing in the sunlight in the kitchen, Sherlock finds he can breathe again. He waits until his heart stops pounding in his ears and he's sure he's the only one in the building. The he sets John's radio on the kitchen counter and goes exploring, collecting data as he wanders from room to room.

 _Single mother_ , he deduces in the kitchen, just from glancing about. He doesn't have to 'listen' at all, it's so easy to see from the detritus ittering the counter.  _Works two jobs_.  _Enjoys the first, hates the second. Wishes she had more time to cook._ Sherlock's hollow stomach mourns the empty refrigerator.

 _Alcoholic father_ , Sherlock determines in the next room, from both the evidence in the locked liquor cabinet and the old anger still floating near the ceiling. Emotions are dangerous things, and tend to linger. _Moved out._ Sherlock closes his eyes and on the back of the lids he can see it as it played out: the shouting, the threats, the final ultimatum. Grief sharpens the ghosts of angry words and makes Sherlock's ears ring. John's grief is there, but that sorrow belongs to a younger John, the John in the photograph, maybe.

Sherlock opens his eyes and wipes blood from his upper lip. Mycroft, he thinks, would be proud.

There's a second flight of stairs leading up from the main floor. Sherlock takes them. The stairs are carpeted, his bare feet make no sound. The banister is carved wood. The smooth curves are pleasant beneath his fingertips. The carpet is soft beneath his toes. He follows a hunch that is less of a guess and more of a certainty - again, Mycroft would be proud - and turns into the first bedroom on off the hall on the left. 

John's room. Obviously.

Only, not _just_ John's. This room, not large to begin with, is made smaller by a curtain run down its very center, hung from a rod screwed neatly into the ceiling, divided left to right, east to west.

On the right - _John_. A small cot messily covered with a puffy blue blanket and an oddity of misshapen pillows. There are dirty socks and two pairs of mud-stained shoes abandoned on the floor beneath the bed. A long-necked lamp for reading squats on worn, square rug at the head of the bed. There's a small shelf of wood plank and concrete brick. Sherlock examines these shelves with the same care he used on downstairs: small plastic men carrying guns, a rubber ball on the end of a stick, a living snail in a terrarium, and more history books. A large shirt emblazoned with the number 15 in yellow and black is tacked proudly to the wall. _Sports_ , Sherlock thinks, although he has no idea of which sort. Sherlock's education has been hazy on _sports_. All and all, John's space is comfortably disordered.

On the left - _not John_. A similar cot, but neatly made in garish pinks, purples, and black. One pair of rubber boots lined up at the head of the bed, fraying at the soles. A record player on makeshift table built of more concrete brick and a wider selection of wood. A pile of records in their paper sleeves. Mycroft allows Sherlock music sometimes, usually over the FM radio; records are a rarity. Sherlock sorts through the pile, envious.

His envy grows when he discovers the music box shoved behind the record player. A softer pink, the box feels forgotten. Intrigued, Sherlock lifts the hinged lid. Immediately Beethoven's Symphony #5 begins to play. The sound is tinny, stuttering. But the minuscule dancer spinning inside the box is perfect, her miniature arms lifted above her head in rapture, her scarlet lace skirt sparkling as she rotates. 

Sherlock is entranced. He stands very still, lips parted, until the music runs out. Then he is heartbroken until he find the lever on the side of the box and rewinds the spring. The music and the dancer begin again. Sherlock forgets everything else. 

He winds the box another ten times, fifteen, twenty. He learns how to mimic the dancer's pose and is spinning in place, music box open atop the garish cot, when he's shaken from joy by the sound of a door one floor down slamming open and a voice lifted in loud distress. John's mother has come home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When twelve-year-old John Watson's twin sister, Harry, goes missing, John and his friends launch a terrifying investigation into Harry's disappearance. As they search for answers, they unravel a series of extraordinary mysteries involving secret government experiments, unnerving supernatural forces, and a very unusual little boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four is based on the Tumblr Sherlock Challenge's November prompt - "smell".
> 
> Chapters Five through Eight will also attempt to incorporate the challenge's monthly prompts. Which means A) things may get tricky for me and B) Upside-Down will only update once a month, which works well in my busy schedule.

El is sitting on the basement floor, Harry's pink satin music box cradled between his crossed legs, when John and Greg and Molly race home together from school. John's stomach has been aching all day with worry for his sister, and for El.  The cop car parked in the driveway next to his mom's sedan only makes it hurt worse. If the cops are involved it means Harry's in a shit-ton of trouble once she decides to come back home. 

He's relieved, but not surprised to see El still safely hidden away. From the blank way John's mom looked at him when they passed through the kitchen on the way to the basement stairs, the house could have burst into flames and she'd never notice until it was too late. The cop who belonged to the car in their driveway - the cop John's mom had dated in high school before she'd married Dad - was eating a sandwich over the kitchen sink and talking quietly between bites. He'd waved at John and Molly and Greg. Only Molly had waved back.

"El!" John says now, relief and worry making his voice rough. "What are you doing with that - Harry hates anybody touching her things!"

El flinches at John's tone. Then he frowns, and clutches the pink box against his chest. "Pretty," he declares. His mouth flattens and his chin juts defensively.

"What the fuck," says Greg. "Harry's going to have a heart attack when she learns you've been in her room, freak."

"Harry." El echoes. He opens the music box, touches the tiny ballerina with the tip of one finger, glances at John. "Harry's lost."

John feels dizzy. He drops to his knees on the carpet by El's bare feet. "That's right. You're right, El. Harry - my sister - Harry's run off. We were out looking for her, when we found you, back in the woods behind the road. Remember? Did you see her? Did you see Harry last night?"

"You're out of your mind." Greg stomps a circle around the basement. Molly makes shushing noises. "He's a freak and a thief. He doesn't know anything. We need to tell your mom, John."

El bites his lip. Without looking away from John, he reaches beneath the music box and pulls forth an old photo. John recognizes the Polaroid at once. It's of Harry, and him, and his mom and dad, taken four years earlier on a summer road trip. They're posed in front of the World's Biggest Ball of Twine and they're all smiling, even Harry, even Dad. It's the last trip they took together before the divorce. Harry keeps the photo pinned to the wall on her side of their room. As far as John knows, it's the only picture of the four of them together left in the house.

El points at Harry in the picture. He blinks at John for confirmation.

"Yes! That's right, El! That's Harry. _Did_ you see her? She's going to catch hell for running off - do you know where she is?"

"Lost," El says, and his eyes are wide and worried. "John. Harry's lost."

John shudders, struck by the sort of sudden chill his granny used to say meant bad luck. He looks around at Greg and Molly. Molly's wringing her hands the way she does when she's nervous about a school exam. Greg's scowling.

"What sort of name is 'El', anyway?" John's friend demands. "It's a letter of the alphabet, for Chrissake."

El's cheeks flush pink as the music box. John bristles.

"Shut up, Greg. Just shut up. Look. He recognizes Harry. I think he saw her out in the woods, or something..."

"What if she did," Greg retorts. "So what? Harry's always lurking about in the woods having a smoke or a drink. We all know it. Just, I dunno." He shoves his hands deep in the front pockets of his jeans and lets out a low whistle. "Look, the smart thing to do would be tell your mom - "

"Smart," scoffs El, scrunching up his face in Greg's direction. "Idiot."

Molly looks like she's just swallowed something sour. Greg rocks back like El's just punched him. Then, before John can jump up and stop him, he stomps across the room and yanks open the door at the bottom of the basement stairs.

"That's it," he growls at John between gritted teeth. "You _are_ out of your mind. I'm telling your mom! Mrs Wa - "

The door slams itself shut before Greg can finish shouting.

"No," says El, rising to his feet alongside John. Greg's tugging at the door, his hands slipping on the knob. The door won't budge. "No adults."

***

"Look, I'm sorry," Greg apologizes for the sixth time while John digs an old rag out of the give-away bin his mom keeps in one corner of the basement. He daubs at the blood dripping from El's nose with one corner of the rag. El, standing rigidly with Harry's music box still in his hand, doesn't protest John's doctoring.

"If I'd known you had superpowers," Greg continues, abashed, "I never would have upset you."

"We won't tell anyone," Molly agrees. She's staring at El with a starstruck expression John knows very well. The last time she wore it, Molly was crushing on the school basketball captain, following the team from practice to practice, writing 'Molly Adler' over and over again on the cover of her math notebook.

John squashes a pang of jealousy. Molly's allowed to crush on anyone she likes, even if John's the only one who championed El from the beginning.

"What Greg is trying to say, is that we were just scared," Molly explains. "We're worried about Harry. Because John's worried about Harry, and he's our friend - "

"Friend?" interrupts El. He turns toward John. "What is 'friend'?"

Greg's eyebrows climb. "Seriously? Is he serious?"

"Hush," warns Molly, as John, twisting the bloodied rag in his hand, regards El. It's not a joke. He can see from the quizzical tilt of El's chin that the boy really doesn't know.

"A friend." John considers his words carefully. He doesn't want to get this wrong. It seems important, somehow. "Is..." He thinks of Harry laughing in front of the World's Biggest Ball of Twine; back then her giggles had been infectious. "A friend is someone you'd do anything for." He coughs, feeling stupid. "You know, lend them your cool stuff, like comic books and trading cards. And stick up for them, always. No matter what."

"And a friend never breaks a promise," Molly adds. "That's important."

Greg nods. "Especially when there's spit."

"Spit?" El demands.

"Yeah," agrees John. "A spit swear means..." He spits into his palm, holds out his hand. "...you never break your word. Ever. It's a bond, and it's super important. Because friends tell each other things, things that even parents don't know."

El spits like a girl, with more drool than force, but when he presses his wet palm to John's, there's force behind the grip. Molly and Greg grin like loons. John can't help snorting a little at El's solemn attention.

"Friends," the strange boy proclaims, linking his fingers with John's. "No matter what."

***

"We just tell our parents we have AV Club after school," explains John the next morning. "That'll give us at least a few hours for Operation Harriet."

"You seriously think that El knows where Harry is?" A good night's sleep has renewed Greg's skepticism. At least, John thinks, his friend has stopped calling El 'freak'.

"Just trust me on this, okay? I've got a feeling. I think he saw Harry out there. I think he knows where she is. Right, El?"

"Lost," El confirms.

"Told you." John points at Greg. "Did you get the supplies?"

"Yeah." Across the room Molly and El are digging through the give-away bin, looking for something that might disguise El's bald head and frail form. Greg upends his backpack on the carpet. "Pop's binoculars... from 'Nam. Army knife... also from 'Nam. Hammer, camouflage bandana... and the wrist rocket."

John shakes his head. "A slingshot? Why do we need a slingshot?"

"First of all, it's a wrist rocket. And second of all, who knows what's out there? Probably nothing. Probably just Harry and her stupid runaway friends. But, Pop says he's seen strange things out in the woods. And if El says there are bad men about...just in case..." Greg brandishes the sling shot. "One of us is ready."

John smothers a sigh. He didn't get a good night sleep, what with worry about Harry and his mom one minute and El alone and maybe scared in the basement the next. "Right, good.  Molly, what did you bring?"

Molly and El turn from the give-away bin. El's wearing one of Harry's old Halloween wigs, long and blond with a choppy fringe. Greg makes a dubious noise but stifles it behind his hand when Molly glares. 

"A boy with superpowers can wear whatever he wants," Molly says. "Even if that means a Harry's old piano recital dress and Sleeping Beauty wig for a disguise, so shut up." She empties her own pack on the table, El peering over her shoulder, the ends of his blond wig trailing. "So, we've got... Nutty Bars, Bazooka, Pez, Smarties, Pringles, Nilla Wafers, apple, banana, and trail mix. And three cold Eggos I toasted this morning." 

Greg takes his hand from his mouth. "Seriously?"

"Well. We need energy for our travels." Molly nods permission when El reaches for an Eggo. El takes a bite of cold waffle. His grey eyes light in pleasure.

"Oh, and also bug spray." Molly picks a small bottle from amongst the scattering of food. " _Smells_ like dead skunk but works a treat." John takes an experimental sniff and winces. The bug spray really does stink like dead animal. Harry will probably smell them coming.

"Fantastic," says Greg. "Any baddies in the woods, you can just spray 'em in the eyes with bug spray."

El's finished his Eggo. John silently reaches across the table and offers him a second one. El dimples beneath blond fringe. John feels like smiling for the first time since he rolled out of bed at dawn. 

"Listen," he tells Greg. "Molly doesn't need a weapon. We meet any baddies while we're looking for Harry, El will take care of them."

"Promise," El agrees around a mouthful of Eggo.

"Yeah, a boy in a pink dress and princess wig." But Greg thumps El roughly on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I've got the wrist rocket for backup. And when we find Harry - "

"John!" The ceiling rattles above their head: John's mom, stomping on the kitchen floor. "Molly! Greg! Time for school! Hustle." 

"Right, good." John grabs up his books, then leans down to get El's attention. "Listen, just stay down here. Don't make any noise, and don't go upstairs again. Mom's got a whole bunch of people coming over to look help look for Harry. If you get hungry, just eat some of Molly's snacks, okay?"

"Okay."

"Good. Coming, Mom! ...you know those power lines, back behind where we first met? Yeah? Good. Meet us there, after school, okay?"

"After school?" El wrinkles his brow, abruptly anxious, as Greg and Molly dash up the basement stairs.

"Yeah." John taps the Seiko on his wrist, then points at the Timex on hanging on the wall. "At 3:15. You know, when the numbers read three-one-five, meet us there? Okay?"

El relaxes and nods. "Yes. Okay."

John heaves a sigh. His heart feels lighter. Maybe everything will be okay. They'll find Harry before dark and his mom will be so relieved she won't send Harry away to boarding school after all. And once Harry's sorted everyone will be so grateful they'll have to help El, even though John's not exactly sure what that will entail. 

"John," says El, stopping John halfway to the stairs. 

"Yeah?" John turns back. El looks very small and alone, standing over the table, Molly's snacks spread out beneath his hands.

"Be careful."

"I will," John tosses El a salute. "I promise."

 

 

 

 


End file.
